


in this valley of dying stars

by Tedronai



Category: The Malazan Book of the Fallen - Steven Erikson
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Wildly Making Things Up about Eleint Soletaken Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 14:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20155219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tedronai/pseuds/Tedronai
Summary: Courage, Andarist had called it. And… cruel madness – by the Mother, yes – such destruction, the sheer audacity of the treachery – could they have meant all of that?-Toll the Hounds





	in this valley of dying stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to all those (three or four) of you who keep enabling my Tiste Shipping bullshit, I love y'all. <3

_ Anomander… what are we doing? _

Silchas had asked that question out loud but once, and Anomander had answered,  _ “We are strong enough to survive this." _ Standing next to his brother, as they watched Andarist turn away, he wondered if Anomander believed what he’d said or if he felt as bereft in this moment as he did.

“It has to be this way,” Anomander murmured, and for a startled moment Silchas thought his brother had read his mind, but a sideways glance told him Anomander was not looking at him, was not in fact looking as though he remembered he was there at all. 

_ So you are not free of doubts, either. _ Some other time, aeons ago, the thought might have held a hint of satisfaction. Now, it tasted like ashes. And whether or not Anomander was right—whether this was the only way—it was far too late to turn back now. 

_ And to you, dear brother, falls the most difficult task, the heaviest burden. I pray that you’re equal to it. _

Finally Anomander stirred again. “Come,” he said, turning to leave, “we have much to do, and little time.”

Silchas followed. Wondering, if they had seen their brother for the last time.

* * *

_ Courage, _ Andarist had called it;  _ courage, or cruel madness, _ and when the blood of Tiam took hold of him, Silchas couldn’t help but agree with the latter.

He’d expected pain; he had failed to imagine how all-consuming it could be. His body was on fire; the blood in his veins had turned to ice; his very bones felt like they were being carved out from the inside and filled with molten iron. And that was nothing compared to the seething rage and ravenous hunger tearing his mind to shreds.

Around him, screams, as other Tiste went through the same transformation. To his horror—which he could feel but only barely, as if the whole concept was somehow abstract—the sound evoked not pity but something vicious, something so deeply instinctual that it was only when he heard the low growl rising from his own throat that he realised he was half ready to tear out the heart of whichever poor soul would be the first to approach him.

He felt rather than saw the person before him, another Eleint soletaken radiating power and dominance—

—and everything dissolved in blinding fury.

* * *

Awareness returned in disjointed fragments. A solid sense of self, of who he had been before the draconean blood had burned it all away, still eluded him, but at least he could tell that there  _ was _ a person hiding somewhere amidst the jumbled pieces of identity. Tiste; not dragon. That was important. Why was it important?

“—need you.” Somebody was speaking; had been speaking for a while now. 

He opened his eyes to find that somebody looming over him; Andii, judging by the midnight hue of his skin, and the silver hair… 

“Anomander,” he rasped, the name surfacing from the depths of his memory even as he spoke it. And with it… everything else. Trying to move his limbs told him that he was bound, and he felt bruised and battered. He could remember bits and pieces of the fight after the Eleint blood had taken over and he’d attacked Anomander.

“Silchas,” Anomander said, and there was a clear note of relief to his voice. “I feared we’d lost you.”

Silchas shook his head with a rueful smile, then winced as fresh blood flowed from a split lip. “I fear you almost did.” Anomander’s sigh echoed in the small space, and Silchas wondered where he’d been taken. Then it occurred to him to wonder how much time had passed since he’d lost control. And then… “What of the others?” he asked. “Was I the only one—?”

“No,” Anomander replied. “One did not survive the transformation, and two others lost control; one managed to wound the other gravely before they were restrained.”

_ Oh. _ “And did I…” Silchas trailed off, trying to see if Anomander seemed hurt.

A rueful smile flickered across Anomander’s lips. “You gave it a fair shot but no, I am unharmed.”

“I’m glad.” Pause. “Now, were you planning to untie me?”

Anomander tilted his head slightly, as though considering the matter. “I suppose you’re not going to fly into a murderous rage again.” He crouched next to Silchas and sliced through the ropes with a knife. Silchas could still feel the resonance of Anomander’s power, dark and savage, and the dragon within him wanted to sink its teeth into his throat. Anomander frowned, as though sensing something of that desire. “You need to control that,” he said in a low voice. “I need to be able to count on you.”

Silchas grunted. “What, pray tell, do you think I’m doing?” 

“You need to control it better,” Anomander snapped. Then he sighed, visibly reining in his own temper. “We all do.” He held out his hand and, when Silchas took it, pulled him effortlessly upright. The two faced each other, the tension between them almost a tangible thing.

“You can count on me,” Silchas said finally.

Anomander gave a curt nod and turned away.

* * *

The great white dragon flew over the encampment and vanished over the hills beyond. It scanned the ground with its cold, red eyes until it found what it was looking for: a lone silver-haired Tiste standing on the rocky plain, looking up to the sky. The dragon landed a short distance away from the Tiste and, after a moment, sembled into Silchas Ruin.

Anomander watched as Silchas approached. “You have grown fond of that form,” he said, not disapproving if not quite approving, either.

Silchas bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile. “You have a new sword.”

Anomander did not flinch at the words, but something in his eyes grew harder. “We have no time for regrets,” he said, sounding as though he was half trying to convince himself. 

Silchas exhaled slowly, then nodded. “The only way through…” he murmured, echoing Andarist’s words when they’d parted.  _ And pray there’s something worth surviving for, on the other side, for those of us who do. _

“All is set?” Anomander asked.

Silchas nodded again. “On the morrow I will announce my alliance with Scabandari and his Edur.”

Something that might have been anguish or just a shadow of starlight glimmered in Anomander’s eyes, gone in a second. “Scara is going to—” he began.

But Silchas cut him off. “I know.”

Silence fell. There didn’t seem to be anything more to say; or too much, so much that it couldn’t possibly fit into what time they had left. Come the dawn, they would walk their separate ways and not even gods knew if they would ever meet again. Riding the high of the Eleint blood, Silchas could believe himself capable of anything—and maybe that was why he was beginning to prefer his soletaken form—but the reality was far less certain.

Anomander was the first to break the silence. “This is a farewell, then.”

When he made to turn away, Silchas reached out without thinking to grasp his wrist, to stop him. “Anomander—”

Anomander looked back at him, startled either by the contact or something in Silchas’ voice. “What is it?”

“Suppose,” Silchas breathed into the space between them, “this is the last time we ever see each other.”

“We can’t know that,” Anomander replied; but, again, he sounded as though he was trying to convince himself more than Silchas.

“And we can’t know it’s not,” Silchas said, hearing the note of desperation in his own voice; knowing that Anomander could also hear it. And right now, he was not too proud to beg. “Give me this one thing and I will go to my fate without regrets. Anomander…”

Something that was more Eleint than Tiste flared to life in the depths of Anomander’s eyes, and Silchas could see his desire reflected in the way Anomander looked at him. “I warn you,” Anomander said, “I may not be in the mood to be gentle.”

Silchas nearly laughed at the absurdity of the warning. He didn’t  _ want _ gentle; he didn’t think he could deal with gentleness right now. He wanted it to hurt; he wanted scars to remember this night by; most of all he wanted Anomander to not hold anything back, and he wanted it with such intensity it might have frightened him once, when he had still been only Tiste. 

Out loud he just said, “Good.”

He had a feeling Anomander heard the rest, anyway.

* * *

Few words were exchanged when they parted later and returned to their preparations. And when the dawn came, when Liosan legions in numbers beyond counting stood poised to descend upon the Andii, Silchas Ruin took his place at Scabandari’s side and led his people into a new world.


End file.
